Heartless
by kujikiri21
Summary: The Heart. What exactly is it? Is it but an organ that pumps blood and life through one's body? Or is it something more? The children of Aphrodite believe so and consider it to be the strongest and most important thing in the world and they treasure their own like a dragon would their hoard. But what happens if a son of Love loses their heart? The world trembles at the thought.


**Heartless**

 _Disclaimer: I do not own Harry Potter or Percy Jackson._

Chapter 1: In Chains

He did not know how long he had been here, in this cage of metal and stone and darkness beneath the surface of the earth, but he knew it had been for a long time.

Only in the dimmest of his memories, as few and scattered as they were, did he remember the, by turns, soothing warmth and scorching heat of the sun as it shined down upon his skin, the gentle caress and howling lash of the wind as it battered his frame, the cool flow and raging torrent of water that seeped into his very marrow, chilling him from the inside out.

Considering where he was now, and had been, from what he could determine, for years, it was perhaps for the best that he couldn't truly recall those experiences. It would have only made his current existence that much harder.

Blank green eyes looked idly down at his thin and pale wrists, shackled to the hard stone wall of his cell by long chains of what he had come to know as Celestial Bronze, the material glowing with a subtle inner light, as if the metal were more than just processed rocks torn from the bosom of the earth. He had tested its strength before, early on in his captivity, pulling at it or trying to break it by any means possible, more out of slight curiosity of its strength rather than a desire for freedom.

It had not so much as budged or bent despite his efforts.

He raised his green eyes, apathetic and cold, yet brilliantly green, like emerald jewels, to look around his familiar enclosure once more, a sense of boredom taking a hold of him.

It was small, for a given value of the word, the walls, ceiling, floor and bars creating a ten by eight by four meter box that was his living quarters. Generous compared to the quarters of his captor's other captives (the humanoid ones anyway.) but still small.

Then again, he had earned it. Spilled blood and ash and dust for it. And would continue to do so.

His bed, on which he now sat, was a hinged rusted metal bunk that was anchored to the back stone wall. Tattered blankets and a wad of rolled up rags atop the bunk's wire mesh served as his bedding and pillow. Frankly, it was a safety hazard and a death trap rolled into one, with all its jagged edges and gaping holes in the mesh. He had never slept on it, much preferring to slumber on the oft-times gritty and cold stone floor when he needed rest, as seldom as he seemed to need it.

In the wall above the rusted hulk of a bed frame were two thick metal rings bolted into the stone wall, attached to which were long lengths of chain, that were in turn attached to the shackles on his wrists. The lengths of chain were long enough for him to reach any corner of his cage semi-comfortably. Much preferable to his former accommodations, which had him with his back literally against a wall and barely able to move an inch.

In one corner of the cage, near his unused bed, was a dark bucket. The use of it was not something he liked to contemplate but accepted it as a necessity.

The only other thing in his little chamber was a battered metal tray, sitting in the middle of the cage, upon which rested a roughly carved wooden soon and an equally rough wooden jug, upon which he was served his daily meal of bread and broth.

He scanned over the his mostly empty cage once more.

Empty. Empty is what his life was. Empty and dark.

And he didn't really care.

He didn't really care, because it was all that he truly knew, lacking even a name he could call his own until he had fallen into the hands of his master.

He tilted his head to the side suddenly, making his matted and disheveled black hair, cut short and rough, sway to the side slightly as something impinged on his hearing. A faint squealing groaning sound that echoed off of the stone walls outside of his cell and into his. It was a familiar sound, one that was accompanied by other sounds that were just as familiar. The jangling of metal partnered with rhythmic thumps and, sometimes, slight scratches.

He wordlessly rose to his feet, the soft rattle of his chains resounding in his cell as he stood in front of his bunk, his green eyes staring ahead at the bars of his cell's door. His current boredom would appear to soon be coming to an end. At least for a time.

The rhythmic thumps, those of footsteps, became louder and louder, as did the clanging and clinking of metal, a set of keys rattling at the approaching being's hip. Soft grumbling, guttural and low, could be heard coming from the direction of the footsteps. He felt his eyebrow quirk.

It appeared that someone was not in the best of moods.

Soon, the cause of all the noise was revealed to him.

The being that appeared beyond the bars of his cell, backlit by the flaming torch in a wall sconce on the wall behind it, was a familiar one.

"Time to earn your bread, brat!" The hulking eight foot tall humanoid creature growled, bearing his pointed teeth in a fierce grin, his red eyes practically glowing with a deep and feral hunger as they perceived the shorter person through the bars. In one of its hands, that were attached to heavily tattooed arms thicker than an ancient oak's branches, a huge club, as thick around as the boy's own, admittedly slim, waist, hung and was still splattered with stains that the caged boy had no desire to contemplate.

"Spare me your drivel, trash, and do your job," the green eyed boy in the cage said sharply and with a sense of distaste as he looked at the disgusting example of a Laistrygonian Giant, a cannibalistic species of monster that generally lived to the north but ranged down further south with the right incentive and offer.

Often those incentives involved bloodshed and feasting upon the still writhing flesh of mortal men.

The cannibal's ready eyes narrowed at the caged youth, his grin falling away from his face and the hold he had off of his club tightening in response to the boy's words, obviously contemplating if he should use it to avenge himself of the insult that had been delivered to him by the boy's seemingly impertinent mouth.

"Quite the mouth on you today, brat," the beast shaped as a man growled as he drew himself upright to his rather impressive height, at least in comparison to the green eyed boy's own. Pointed teeth gleamed in a feral manner and those eyes, the colour of blood, shined brightly.

"Let's see how long it lasts."

* * *

Large fingers, the size of salamis, drummed upon the arm of a throne of a bleached white substance impatiently as Antaeus, the son of Poseidon, the Earthshaker and Lord of the Seas, and Gaia, the Earth Mother, waited for the greatest prize of his collection to be brought forth.

He only absently watched the battle between what looked to be a large ape, though it was far larger than any ape known to the world of mortal Men, wielding a large spiked club and a dog-headed humanoid spinning a polearm of some variety, the curved and sharp head of the weapon making the air hiss and rush with every powerful strike of the weapon. Barely a year ago, he would have been yelling and cheering along with the rest of the monstrous audience in the stands of his private arena, laughing at the pain that each combatant inflicted on each other and glorying in the fact that he held the power of life and death over the creatures below.

However, considering the abilities of his greatest prize, he could barely find within himself the ability to not yawn at the display before him. The skills of his treasured possession were so far beyond these two squalid beasts that he could only compare the two in the arena at the moment to month old babes still in their cribs, weak and helpless and their only skills being able to shit their diapers and cry loudly.

He scowled heavily. The blank faced boy had spoiled his enjoyment of good old fashioned bloodsport.

The bout below finally ended as the dog-headed monster managed to, literally, cut the legs out from under the over-sized ape with an, admittedly, well timed strike of its glaive/halberd and then pinned the monkey monster to sand floor of the arena with point of the polearm pricking the monster's throat. The dog-head looked up toward Antaeus, held tilted in silent question, ignoring the bloodthirsty cheers and howls of the crowd in the stands as they called for blood, blood and more blood.

The giant son of Poseidon smirked slightly, extending a fist toward the arena with the thumb held out and parallel to the ground.

Still, while the battle seemed uninspiring and lacklustre, at least to him...

His wrist twisted and the thumb pointed down, making the cheers and howls of the visitors to his arena explode and increase in volume.

In the next moment, the monkey monster's head was separated from its body as the dog-headed creature stabbed its polearm hard through the ape's throat and the battle's loser swiftly turned into golden dust, its essence returning to Tartarus to reform in time and leaving behind only a bleached skull, that almost instantly vanished from the floor of the arena, thanks to a spell that the child of Poseidon had paid a handsome price to be cast upon the arena by a well known and powerful sorceress.

...It didn't mean he couldn't enjoy the slight pleasure of the kill, at least until the main event arrived.

The audience, made of monsters, both mortal and immortal, cheered the conclusion of the battle, the dog-headed warrior lifting its polearm aloft in victory, let loose its own howl of bloodthirsty success. It made the giant chuckle to himself slightly.

No matter the age, be it Bronze, Heroic or Iron, the sight of a bloodthirsty mob of people/beings never failed to amuse him.

He suddenly felt a presence at his side, close but not hostile and _very_ familiar. A soft sibilant voice whispered in his ear.

"The preparationsss are complete, my lord," Antaeus heard his second, a powerful Scythian Dracaena named Sedna, say to him, "We merely but await your command."

A wicked grin of his wave etched teeth crossed his craggy features at the news that his subordinate had brought to him, not bothering to turn around and face serpent woman. Finally! The Main Event of the day could begin!

"Excellent," he rumbled, his voice like waves upon the shore, crashing violently and powerfully, even at the level of a whisper, a vocal reminder of the power he wielded as a warrior, "Were there any complications?"

The sound of shifting scales reached his ears, his long association with the draconic female allowing him to interpret the sound as that of a wordless shrug of indifference.

"Not from the heartlessss boy," Sedna replied, "He knows hisss place in the scheme of thingsss and toesss the line. Some of your more recent...acquisitionsss needed reminding however." Antaeus felt the malicious smirk in the female's voice as she continued, "Only a sssingle example wasss needed before they all fell into line."

Antaeus felt a smirk of his own cross his face. The only thing better than inflicting pain on an enemy was inflicting pain _and_ death. He had no doubt that Sedna had ensured that the rambunctious fool who had attempted to derail today's true entertainment with his foolhardy actions had endured both of these things at the merciless hand of Sedna, who had the fortune to learn a few things from Kampe herself about the art of pain, torture and death.

"Good. Good," he practically crooned, "You have done well, my dear."

His smile then grew into a grin of malicious delights, his wavy tattooed arms rippling like the turbulent ocean's surface as his massive muscles twitched with delighted anticipation.

"As the mortals do say: Let's get this show on the road."

* * *

The slim green eyed male blankly glanced at his monstrous escort as they both waited in the shadows of one of the tunnels that lead into the arena.

"Cease your unnecessary actions, trash," the boy stated, demanded, of the taller monster, the boy's pale brow furrowed in annoyance and distaste at the humanoid's filthy clawed hand clasping his shoulder in a tight grip. The large creature obviously thought, in his deluded mind, that he was strong enough to hold the green eyed youth in place with such a grip.

The pale boy was half-tempted to highlight the fallacy of that insane belief...but it would be a wasted effort to try and drive the point home to the monster. Some beings are just too stupid to live...others are stupid enough that they manage _to_ live through what would kill others of their respective and vicious kind.

Considering the foolishness he had heard the particular specimen of monster sometimes got up to in the temple of skulls...he was inclined to believe that the creature was a bit of both.

The giant leered and sneered down at him, his pointy yellowed teeth made clearly visible. "You're not going anywhere, shrimp," the tall creature snorted in arrogant contempt. The youth felt those sharp claws on the tip of the monster's large fingers dig harshly into the flesh of the hollow of his shoulder. The youth didn't even bother to grunt a response to the monster's snarl, nor did he flinch as he felt something warm trickle down his pale flesh.

"Indeed I am not," the youth responded coolly in agreement, "but it is not because of your deplorable strength, trash."

The beast snarled at the youth, the cracked, yellowed and broken claw-like nails of the beast digging deeper into his flesh...or at least tried to.

Dull snapping and cracking was heard in the dark tunnel as the monster's nails met flesh that was harder than steel and found itself wanting, breaking beneath the combination of the creature's strength and the unyielding steel that the youth's pale skin had become.

The youth, blank and apathetic, was unmoved by the posturing and foolishness of his escort/guard, having dealt with it day and day ever since he had come into the custody of the owner of the arena. It was always the same monotonous song and dance between the two of them, the creature never seemed to truly learn to not try and poke and prod at him, it never ended well for the unwashed and barbaric cannibalistic beast.

"Watch your mouth, brat," the creature, who's named he had never cared to inquire about or try to learn, venomously hissed down at the youth as he struggled to keep ahold of his, ironically, monstrous temper that practically begged him to squash the little brat into jelly with his large club. However, the cannibal still had enough faculties in his head to know that his patron, Antaeus, would not be best pleased if his prized fighter was killed outside the arena. And the cannibal had no desire to get on the bad side of a child of the primordial Gaia. "It will get you killed one day."

"We will have to see," the youth bluntly replied, "but even I do pass...it will not be at the hands of a weak mongrel like yourself."

The Laistrygonian snarled deeply and venomously, his lambent red eyes burning with the fires of anger and hatred toward the titchy little worm that his master had ordered him to escort to the arena when called upon. His hand tightened on the haft of his club and his muscles in his tattooed arms twitched hard as he fought not to obliterate the green eyed worm of a boy.

Screw the consequences! He was going to kill the mortal child and spread his blood over his morning toast!

He only moved the smallest of twitches when a loud horn sounded from the arena, rising over the raucous yelling of the audience and the spectators of the arena. That sound brought him up short and made the fires of rage that were filling his mind be quenched and doused, bringing him back to his senses.

He roughly shoved, almost throwing, the boy he was ordered to escort forward toward the entrance to the sandy battlefield within the arena with a bitter snarl. His boss would be less than pleased if the boy was killed before the battle and begun and would have crushed the cannibal's skull between his immense hands without a shred of hesitation for spoiling the son of Gaia's entertainment.

"Move it, brat," he growled to the boy, who didn't even have the decency to stumble or fall from the cannibal's actions, much to the monster's annoyance. Indeed, the brat made it look like he had taken a graceful step forward, like a predator stalking forward toward its prey. Insolent little shit. "The boss is waiting. He doesn't like to be kept waiting."

The little shit didn't bother to respond to the tall cannibal's biting and growling words and simply kept walking forward, the giant a step behind to ensure the little bastard didn't try to run from his predetermined fate within the arena.

The soon left the darkness of the tunnel/corridor of stone and entered into the light of arena, the cannibal stopping before he could enter the light himself and simply sullenly watched the little brat walk calmly, even casually, maybe even arrogantly, up the tunnel and into the arena, to the accompanying calls of an increasing louder and more fevered crowd.

The giant cannibal hawked and spat to the side in disgust, his face set into a sneer.

He hoped the little shit got what was coming to him.

* * *

" **Silence!** " Antaeus roared as he lumbered to his feet, arising from his throne of marble and bone, and held his hands high above himself, demanding those within range of his voice to obey the stern command or face the dire consequences of disobedience and insolence towards the gracious host that he was.

The noise of the fevered crowd ceased immediately. One could have heard a pin drop anywhere in the stadium, it was so quiet.

The giant son of Poseidon slowly lowered his beefy hands, while also looking around the entirety of his precious arena, taking in everyone and everything that was there, affecting a regal 'down the nose' look that had practically been coined by the descendants of Aeneas.

"Welcome," the giant called out, somewhat jovial but also very serious, "Welcome, one and all, to my arena." Large eyes scrutinised the assembled beings in the stands below him, "Many of you have been here before, and have enjoyed the entertainment that I have provided for your amusement."

The giant heard soft murmurs, hisses and rumbles of agreement from all the stands. He smirked ever so slightly to himself. Monsters, of any stripe, always enjoyed a little bloodsport.

"I have hosted hundreds of games, thousands of festivals, millions of matches, in my arena, all in the name of my gracious and esteemed Father, the Earthshaker and Lord of the Seas, Poseidon!"

The crowd roared and hollered, voices of reverence and fear echoing throughout the cavern at the very mention of his powerful Father. Not many were willing to insult one of the Big Three, especially in front of one of more dangerous of their powerful, immortal and ruthless children.

"Mounds upon mounds, heaps upon heaps, were the sacrifices that I have made to my esteemed Father in this Arena," Antaeus continued on, "a monument to the strength that he wields and the favour I receive from him." His face became slightly sorrowful and even annoyed, "But it is not yet complete. Even now, thousands of years since I began the monumental task of creating this sacred place, the Arena is still incomplete, my designs and plans interrupted by witless fools. More blood needs to spilled onto the sands, more skulls need to be crushed and turned into bricks and mortar. Greater sacrifices need to be made and ever more glorious battles need to take place in this sacred place to my honoured Father, long may he rule."

He smiled, a malicious grin on his craggy face that would,have scared anyone who dared to look upon the twisted visage of the son of Earth Mother, as he looked at his captivated audience, one that was practically on the edge of their seats (or tails or what have you.) as they all eagerly listened to the words of their host.

"And today, this very evening, I will ensure that you will all see a great step forward, a leap of progress, made in this very Arena, furthering its completion with a battle that _none_ of you have seen in an age!" his face twisted into an smirk of insane glee, his voice rising with every word that he spoke.

" _Bring them out!"_ He bellowed to the ground below him and, instantly, the sound of grinding gears was heard as, within the Arena, a massive gate on one side of the Arena slowly opened wide with a heavy groans of wood and rattling clicks of metal gears.

Like a book, the gates opened, showing a dark tunnel behind them, and from the darkness emerged a small group of humans.

Ten in number, they were dressed in loose fitting and bedraggled garments, like shapeless sack cloth with holes cut for the head and arms, and tattered, but serviceable leather armour. All of them clutched various weapons in their hands as they were hustled out of the gate by a pair of massive dracaena with spears the crackled with the power of lightning and thunder, keeping the group of ten moving forward and preventing them from retreating.

The crowd roared and snarled at the group of humans, jeers and insults flying freely to the gathered and huddled group below them. The crowd's collective senses told them what these humans below were.

Half-bloods. Demigods. Scions of Olympus.

The Enemy.

"Honoured Guests!" Roared Antaeus with delight, pointing a thick finger down huddled mass of glaring half-bloods below, the grips on their weapons tight enough to make their knuckles go white and pale. "I give to you the first half of the Main Event on today's card. Children of Olympus, Soldiers of the Gods, members of _your_ enemy forces, freshly captured not a week gone by my agents. All of them trained and skilled, each of them with numerous monster deaths to their credit!"

He grinned with feral delight as the crowd's roar intensified with his introduction of the captured half-bloods who, while dirty and pale, held their heads high and glared around them. Antaeus couldn't help but approve of the spunk that these mortal scions of Olympus showed to the vast number of enemies around them all. It took some serious chutzpah, or utter and complete foolishness, to be able to do something like that.

He wondered how long it would last for them. Especially with what he had planned for them.

His large green eyes then looked down at the grim looking group of half-bloods and then addressed them directly, his words heard through the arena and their meaning more than clear.

"Welcome, half-bloods, to my arena. Here, you will fight for life as long as I see fit, being pitted against enemy after enemy, to the death, until you, in turn, are eventually killed. Fight well enough, earn enough of my favour, and you will granted certain privileges and rewards for the duration of your time here. Extra food, better equipment, more spacious accommodations than what you have now or other such things. Fight badly or disobey the orders that you are given..." he smirked at them as his voice trailed off, leaving the words unsaid, and took delight in seeing them collectively shudder at the sight of it. One of them reaching up to touch a slim band of bronze, Celestial of course, that was curled tightly around his throat. One that was mirrored on the rest of the small group's collective throats.

Antaeus grinned inwardly. It had cost him quite the pile, but those bands of bronze, collars in fact, were worth every drachma he spent on them.

"It may sound harsh and even cruel to you all," he continued, giving them a degree of mock sympathy, "Being taken from your homes and then being forced to fight for your lives at the whim of another." He smirked at them again, taking delight in their either flushed in anger or paled in fear dirty faces, "And in truth? It _is_ cruel. It _is_ inhumane. It _is_ harsh." His smile then became sly, like a wily old fox, albeit a fox with a craggy face and a mohawk.

"But I am nothing if not a benevolent being," he continued speaking, "as well as very practical. Few of those captured by my servants accept the life I have laid out for them immediately, constantly bucking the trend, rebelling and refusing to co-operate." The giant sighed heavily, as if bemoaning a child's foolishness, "It causes me a great deal of hassle to try and teach them their place. And those collars of yours," he idly waved a hand at them, indicating metal that now adorned the half-blood's necks, "will only let me push you so far before you simply ignore the agony that they can visit upon you and keep rebelling." He shook his immense head, tutting as he did so, "No. Just using the 'Stick' approach wouldn't work. You need an incentive, a 'Carrot', for me to to get the best out of you."

His sly smile deepened as he looked down at his newest batch of captives.

"So how about I make you an offer?"

Antaeus smirked as the Arena went dead quiet and the faces of the half bloods below, full of fear and anger, gained the faintest glimmerings of hope and a helping of desperation. He smiled wider.

Perfect.

* * *

Marcus, an adult son of Hermes, glared up at the form of one he knew to be Antaeus with a fury of a thousand suns in his blue eyes and a gut twisting mix of desperation, hope and suspicion lighting a fire in his belly.

He was the oldest of the bedraggled group of half-bloods around him, and by far the most experienced and, arguably, the strongest amongst them. Though his days of Questing for the Olympians had passed over a decade ago, having left Camp Half-blood to pursue a career in the mortal world, he still kept up his athletic form and his skills sharp, always improving just that little more each day.

Unfortunately, his skills were not enough to prevent his own abduction from his very own home, despite the warning that he had been given about the intruders as soon as they had crossed the threshold of his abode, a benefit of being a scion of the Lord of Boundaries. He had been subdued within minutes after a brief fight, his weapon skills and speed coming up short in the face of five mortals in balaclavas storming into his home in the early hours of the morning with automatic weapons, that he had briefly noted had an odd attachment below the barrel, on full display.

Streaking bullets, glowing like green strobe lights, had then thundered in his direction, making him duck and roll to avoid the raking fire of ammunition, his hands darting out to grasp his weapons, from where they had been carefully laid before he had gone to bed that night, as he did so. That had, much to his misfortune, played right into their hands and he swiftly learned what the odd attachment on the guns was used for.

He had then been swiftly sprayed by a foamy white substance from the strange addition to the weapons, much to his confusion. He had swiftly lifted his weapons to block the substance, only for it to touch his skin and suddenly make it feel like he was trying to lift Olympus itself as the stuff had hardened into a something like a foamy rock of immense weight. He had been dragged to the ground under the sudden weight and then the brief fight, if it could even be called that, was over as more foam was sprayed onto his sprawled body, freezing him place and rendering unable to move and barely able to breathe with the sudden weight on his back.

The simple application of a chloroform soaked cloth had then rendered the rest of struggles moot, his consciousness leaving him almost instantly.

Only to awaken in chains in the darkness, surrounded by other half-bloods, older ones, ones of his generation, ones that he knew either by sight or description.

They had all been captured. All of them by the same means, of balaclava clad men with guns.

Initially, they had all thought that they were the unfortunate victims of human trafficking ring. Such rings general,y chose their targets with care, taking only those that few or none would miss or inquire about. A qualification that the half-bloods had all, sadly, shared.

None of them had spouses (monsters constantly finding them, and other hazards of the Immortal world plaguing their lives making it hard to enter and maintain a relationship.) or any mortal living relatives. They were all generally loners and workaholics, lacking many friends in the mortal world, their lives in Camp making it somewhat difficult to relate to the problems of regular mortals when they already had a lot heaped on their plates.

In short, they were prime targets for human traffickers. The fact that all,of their abductors had seemed to be human also made this theory a very likely one.

However, that suspicion had quickly fallen to the wayside as they saw the first monster enter their collective cell, a bucket of slop and a stack of wooden bowls in hand.

' _Welcome to your new home, mongrels,'_ the monster had said cheerfully, tattooed arms spread wide and sharp teeth set into a jovially malicious grin, ' _enjoy it while it lasts.'_

The cries of anger and rage from the other half-bloods in the cell had been deafening, the clanging of chains creating a cacophony that had Marcus wanting to beat his head against the stone wall he was changed to in order to escape it, as they threw insults and demands at the monster, who had merely chuckled maliciously as he went about his job. Chained as they all were, this was all that they could do at the time, the majority of them knowing that an attempt to attack the monster as they were was both foolhardy and begging for a quick death.

Unfortunately for all of them, the _majority_ did not mean the _entirety._

Jack, a son of Ares and a brawny mammoth of a man that was just shy of reaching seven feet with a temper just as large, had roared and thrown himself at the monster, teeth bared in a vicious snarl. The chains that were on his arms and legs giving him enough slack to reach the monster in his lunge, his muscled hands moving toward the taller monster's throat in order to choke the what could pass for life out of it.

The next thing happened so fast that Marcus' agile mind barely had time to comprehend it.

One moment the child of Ares was lunging toward the monster, the next had the child of the War God falling to the floor of the cell with a choked off gurgling scream of complete agony, making him start thrashing and writhing on the ground with his meaty hands clawing at his neck as the bronze collar that they all wore glowed a bright white.

The moment after that, the rest of the group of half-bloods had joined him screaming in agony.

Marcus shivered even as he glared up at the smug looking form of the child of Poseidon and Gaia. The pain he had felt at that time was beyond description, having never experienced anything like it before. For someone who was used to feeling pain, just like any other half-blood, and pushing through it in order to survive, the fact that there was something out there that could make them break, render them helpless with the mind-rending, spirit-ripping and body-tearing sensations, in but a moment was not very welcome.

Never had he felt so helpless, more vulnerable, than when he had been under the influence of the damned bronze collars that encircled their collective necks.

He didn't know how long he truly was under the influence of the collar's punishment, the pain so great as render him unable to think of anything more that the horrid sensation, his sense of the passage of time and his spatial awareness completely subsumed by the wave of utter agony that engulfed him, casting him into an ocean of molten lava that burned every inch of his flesh.

Then, abruptly, it had simply stopped. The pain had vanished, leaving only lingering memories and the tingling of his skin as his body questioned the sudden removal of painful stimuli, making him more than a little scared and confused from where he hung limply in his chains, his breaths harsh and ragged while his throat felt like a host of razors was being drawn out of it with every exhalation.

 _'I hope this teaches you your place, brat,'_ he had vaguely heard the distorted voice of the monster growl, Marcus' bleary eyes just barely making out the swirling form of the monster, a Laistrygonian he thought vaguely, as it stood beside a panting and gasping prone child of Ares, a cruel crooked grin on its face as it idly glanced down at the son of War whilst setting down the bucket of slop and bowls with spoons. To Marcus' knowledge, the giant had not even reacted when the son of Ares had attacked, the creature's back completely turned as if the seasoned warrior son of Ares was not even a threat to its survival.

Considering what he had sound found out the collar could do to them all, he had supposed that the monster had the right to be confident and unconcerned.

The smug bastard of a monster had then simply smirked and left, the door of the cell that housed the all sliding closed with a grating clang of metal upon metal.

Marcus would never admit it to anyone, but it took an enormous effort for any of them to get down the tasteless slop that they had been served that day, their appetite ruined by their feelings of vulnerability, weakness and helplessness, twisting their guts and making many an eye water and throat choke with a stifled sob.

Time had passed, though they had never been sure just how much, and they were able to slowly gain information on where they were and why they were there in the first place in the intervals of when the monster, the same one, showed up to serve them their tasteless gruel. The smug bastard had been more than happy to inform them of their current circumstances, taking a sickening and fiendish delight in crushing their hopes and dreams with every malicious yet jovial word that passed his pointy teeth and hungry lips.

They had all been captured by mortal mercenaries in the secret employ of the giant that even now loomed over Marcus and his companion/fellow prisoners upon his throne of marble and bone. Collected for the skills that they had shown in the past and the reputation that they had amongst the beings that they had all fought in their younger years at Camp Half-Blood. It seemed that the son of Gaia had a bit of reach even into the realm of Tartarus, able to obtain information from the slain, reformed and yet not quite reemerged monsters that they had all slain over the years.

Marcus snorted mentally. 'The Dead tell no tales', his arse.

The son of Hermes had to admit the bastard had chosen his targets well. Targeting the elder surviving Half-bloods was a decent move, their respective divine parents often taking a step back, taking their eyes off of them, when they reached a certain age, the Olympians comfortable in the fact that, by reaching adulthood alive, that they had proven themselves able to handle whatever life threw at them, their guidance/interference unnecessary, how ever little or subtle it might have been earlier in their lives.

This proverbial 'apron string cutting' had therefore left them just the slightest bit vulnerable, more open to attack from forces mystical and mundane, something that had been ruthlessly taken advantage of.

As a bonus, they also fulfilled the requirements for the giant's desire to have accomplished fighters to be amongst his stable of 'gladiators'. They would not have lived as long as they had if they were not skilled in the arts of battle. Monsters were neither forgiving nor merciful towards those who had little skill in said arts.

The worst revelation, however, had been about the bronze strips, metal collars, around their necks.

In time, in any other circumstances, they could have mounted a possible escape plan after they had played along with Antaeus' desire for bloodsport for a while. Perhaps they even could have been rescued, their parents setting a Quest for their younger siblings and relations to fulfil.

The existence of the collars changed that.

With it around their necks, their collective divine parents became blind to them, the link between parent and child veiled and severed. In the eyes of their parents, they were already dead. There was no hope to be had there.

Other functions of the enchanted band of metal only made things worse. A pain function, one that they had already experienced, focused around triggering when they generated and acted on the intent to attack select individuals, or activating when other individuals desired it. A proximity function that ensured they never left a certain field of influence, lest the collar they wore simply kill them via explosive decapitation. A paralysis function, again keyed to certain individuals. A binding function. An unbreakable function. All of these and more besides were imprinted and enchanted on the narrow slash of metal.

The collars, a symbol of servitude and slavery, marking them as animals, as _property_ , weren't ever going to come off.

The cannibal who had explained this had smiled in absolute ecstasy as it saw their reactions, the light of hope dying completely within them.

In the days that they had spent in that cage, suicide had been contemplated by one or two of them, a final solution and petty revenge and defiance against their captor, denying him his entertainment. But none were truly willing to make that step, they still clung to their lives, wanting to live and breathe. Their instincts didn't let them contemplate that course for long, not seriously.

Marcus, despite the odds, clung to a shard of hope. They were still alive, that meant that there was hope, no matter how small and dim it may be. Stranger things had happened.

And it seemed now, having been presented to their _benefactor and patron_ for the first time in the flesh, was the time for that dim light to flare to life.

The sly twisted grin on the fat bastard's face, however made him wary, smelling a trap that lay in wait. It wouldn't surprise him that a monster would give the slightest shards of hope, only to snatch it away at the last moment. The fuckers were sadistic like that.

Marcus spoke up for them all, his blue eyes piercing the darkly amused ones high above.

"What is this offer that you speak of?" He questioned the monstrous child of Poseidon, his voice having a slight rasp from his somewhat dry throat, cautiously, his eyes never looking away from the ones above, even as he heard the low boos and hisses from the monsters in the audience and didn't even flinch as pebbles, stones and other refuse was thrown at him and his small party of relatives. They had all endured worst than that over the years. Marcus frowned slightly, chancing a quick glance to one particular compatriot.

She was a young girl, in her mid-teens if the girl had been telling the truth, with brown hair and deeply tanned skin, clearly of a different race of people other than the average white American Caucasian. Her eyes were an admitted wonder to behold, swirling colour, changing every time one looked, like a kaleidoscope. Marcus wouldn't hesitate in saying she was beautiful if he saw her on the street, despite the age factor between them and the tomboyish attitude and initial clothing he had seen her wearing.

It had only taken Marcus a second to realise who her divine parent was, the answer practically glaring him in the face, even if her behaviour didn't exactly mesh with that of her half-siblings he had encountered in the past.

Before her capture, which had been through pure bad luck on the girl's part, being in the wrong place at the wrong time, rather than a well laid plan by the hands of the giant's minions, she had had no clue about the world hidden behind the Mist.

Her introduction into the hidden world had been rough at first, trying vehemently to deny it even as she was chained in the same cell as the rest of the older scions of the divine. That had lasted up until she had first clapped eyes on one of the more unmistakeable inhuman monsters around the place. She hadn't doubted since then and had, instead, gone quiet and introspective, trying to wrestle with the realisation that the world she thought she knew was a lie, a fabrication. Add on the fact that she was in as a perilous situation as one could get without being on the battlefield and you had a recipe for instability.

Marcus grimaced to himself as he returned his eyes to his host and away from the dagger wielding and lightly armoured and very much nervous-but-trying-not-show-it young girl. If, as he suspected, they were forced to fight by the son of Poseidon, then the girl would be the weakest link, at least physically. She had never been trained to fight, nor was she shown to be the greatest of athletes in the brief time they had been in the cell and giving her a crash course on knife wielding, using one of the wooden spoons that came with their meals in the place of an actual dagger. She would be a liability in a group battle and someone would need to keep an eye on her when the inevitable fighting began.

The giant's smirk grew deeper and wider even as he lifted his huge hands, the muscles and engraved wavy tattoos upon them rippling like the ocean, and quiet once more descended upon the arena.

"In my... _employ_ , I have a particular individual," the massive son of Gaia explained, "one that has lasted over a year on the sands you stand upon, a record that has never been beaten by others that I have patroned. In recognition for this inspiring feat, I have declared him to be my Champion." He chuckled, sounding a wave pounding against the rocks as he did so, "Though, granted, it was most out of the sheer entertainment value that I did so."

The giant's sly green eyes gleamed down at the half-bloods, Marcus made sure to meet the bastard's eyes firmly, showing no sign of fear. Even if he felt a deep pit form in the bottom of his gut.

"My offer, my _challenge_ , is this; Defeat my Champion, whether alone or as a group, and I swear on the Styx that I will have you all returned to your homes, unharmed and unmolested. Fail, and you will remain within the confines of my Arena until the hand of death takes you."

Marcus heard the distant rumble of thunder that accompanied oaths of the sacred river even as he felt his mind freeze for a moment, completely stunned, before working furiously at treble speed.

On one hand, here was a chance, a _chance,_ to be able get out of this nightmare before it had even truly begun with almost no strings attached, thanks to the oath upon the Styx. All they would have to do was defeat a single individual. Ten against one (or rather nine and a half due to the dark skinned young girl's lack of ability.) sounded like decent odds to him. It was rather refreshing for the half-bloods to be on the bigger side of numbers for a change.

On the other hand, here Marcus frowned deeply, there was more here at play than what was on the surface. The fact that Antaeus had made the offer so tempting, so irresistible, indicated that the bastard had nigh complete confidence that Marcus and his group of merry folk would not succeed. This was supported by the massive smirk on the bastard's craggy face. And that wasn't even counting the possible abilities of the bastard's so called _Champion._

Marcus had inherited more than his fair share of his father's wit and cunning and could get a decent bead on someone's true nature just by looking at them, how they held themselves, the way moved or spoke. It had saved his ass more than a few times, allowing to be able to spot deception from a mile away, and his senses were practically screaming that this whole thing was a trap.

He had delved an idle hand into the history of Rome in the past, much to the disapproval and disgust of Cabin Six, and he knew that gladiator's life expectancy in the arena wasn't that good, rarely surviving over a year or in excess of ten 'matches'. And those matches were generally stretched out, a single gladiator rarely fighting to the death in the arena more than once a month, the truly experienced and really popular ones, the gladiator versions of the Undertaker and Hulk Hogan, only three to four times a year, to draw in the bigger crowds.

Marcus doubted that Antaeus would have done something like that. No. Marcus thought it far more likely that the bastard of a giant would have thrown the poor bastard he called a Champion into battle every damn day of his stay in the arena. This meant that, if the giant was telling the truth (and Marcus was, sadly, unable to say that he _wasn't_ ), the damned soul in the clutches of Antaeus had likely had everything the giant had to offer thrown at him. And survived.

Marcus shivered. If everyone chose the option of fighting for a chance at their freedom, then they wouldn't just be facing an ordinary powerful warrior, of whatever species they may be.

They would be facing someone, or some _thing_ , that had known nothing but constant battle for over a year. Their foe would have instincts to fight that would be absolutely _insane,_ every blow would be aimed to either maim or kill, every blow efficient, no movement wasted or unnecessary energy expended, like a machine.

Marcus somehow found the thought of fighting such a being to be more frightening than facing the Sky Lord himself in a rage.

Marcus was tempted, there and then, to deny the offer completely, despite the ever so tempting and tantalising guaranteed prize. The chance of victory was slim to none and loss would only result in a quick trip to the Underworld with no chance of a return ticket.

"Make your choice wisely, half-bloods," Antaeus' voice rumbled in warning, even as Marcus was opening his mouth to refuse, "This is a one time offer and it will never be put forward again. This is your only chance at freedom."

That statement made the son of Hermes halt again. His face twisted into a scowl of indecision. The bastard just had to put them all on the spot!

Ignoring the giant entirely, he turned his back to the son of Mother Earth and faced his companions.

"What do you think?" He asked them all quickly. He didn't want to beat around the bush.

"I say we take it," the child of Ares, Jake, said with a feral grin on his, surprisingly, youthful and handsome face, despite being in his late twenties, which was quite the departure from that of his siblings, his bloodshot eyes shining with the bloodlust that he had inherited from his father, making them look like orbs of blood veiled lightly by his rough shorn black hair. In his large and callused hands he spun a large crimson spear, as tall as himself, that he whirled with expert grace, the carved vines in the shaft of the spear distorting the sight of it somewhat. There was an also an air around the weapon that made all of them, save for Jake, instinctively want to shrink away from it, like it was starving predator and they were within the reach of its jaws. "We aren't like the kids back at D's Prison," the scion of slaughter continued, "We have all faced enough, experienced enough, to be able to hold our own. Besides," his grin became a scowl, "I might like to fight as much as the rest of my kin by I will be damned to the Pit before letting myself become the fucker's pet! I would rather die!"

"And die you certainly will," snorted Alfred, a lithe blonde man, his grey eyes, the indicator of his parentage, sharp and cutting, "The offer is clearly a set up, a trap, so that the sorry excuse of a mating between an earthworm and a mollusc can enjoy a bit more blood on his sand and skulls on his walls." The son of wisdom scowled heavily at the ground, his dexterous hands turning white as he gripped the hilt of his sheathed blade tightly.

"But there-" "-is a chance-" "-that we all-" "-can defy the odds-" "-surprise the fool-" "-and win-" "-thus ascertaining our-" ""-freedom.""

The back and forth speech flowed seamlessly from the lips of the twins, Chris and Russel, a set of fraternal twins of Apollo. Many of the half-bloods of their generation had called them the 'Dawn and Dusk' due to their heritage, appearance and actions.

Chris, the 'Dawn' and the younger of the two, had all of the classic traits of his siblings. A light, but golden, tan and a surfer's body. He had shown a bright personality, even whilst he was imprisoned with them all. He was an endless source of chatter and merriment, trying to raise their spirits with songs and jests. For all his humour, however, Marcus knew well that this smiling man was deadly with the bow he fingered even now and wouldn't hesitate to put an arrow through the forehead of the enemy, even if the enemy turned out to be human and mortal, with smile on his face and a song in his heart.

Russell was the 'Dusk' of the pair and was quite different from his younger brother, and indeed the rest of his Cabin, in appearance. He was shorter and more streamlined than his brother, though still well-muscled, but it was more toned. His hair, instead of the usual bright blonde bordering on gold, was a rusty red and wild. Add in his much darker skin and one had to wonder how the two were brothers at all, let alone twins. His personality was also darker than that of his twin, more dour and serious and grim, and his deep blue eyes were almost always narrowed with a fierce light within them that made it difficult for one to not be intimidated by him. His dark clothing and his brutally simple weapons, a short composite bow, in comparison to his brother's long one, and two braces of throwing knives, did nothing to lighten the initial picture of him.

The hard and exterior, however, hid the gentle and soft core of him. Marcus could remember the many times that the dour man had taken the younger half-bloods, from both within and without of his cabin, under his wing, giving them an attentive ear even as he showed them how to adjust to their new life. He was also more empathetic and a better healer than his brother.

For all that the two were vastly different, however, the two of them were never far apart and seemed to almost think on the same wavelength, like two sides of a coin joined together in the middle. In battle, fighting them both at once was nigh suicide for a single person. They worked like a well oiled machine, never needing to speak and always knowing where the other was and seemed to know what the other half of the pair was going to do next and were able to seamlessly flow an endless succession of attacks together.

If they all decided to throw down with Poseidon's by-blow's champion, then they would both be a great asset.

Alfred just glared at the twins in annoyance, rolling his grey eyes in exasperation and tiredness, not particularly liking having to deal with the duo. "And what, realistically, do you think the chances of that happening are?" Growled the child of Athena, those grey eyes as hard as steel, "Especially consider exactly _who_ is making the offer?"

A mirthful giggle arose from a rather tall brunnette, making the child of wisdom turn his ire towards the source.

"I think they might be a little better than average, Alf," the giggler, a woman, said, her brown eyes filled with mirth, "None of us are pushovers, by any means," the tanned skin of her face, a legacy of long hours working beneath the blazing heat of the sun, quirked upwards.

Alfred scowled at the girl, his teeth set, making Marcus hide a smirk himself, despite the situation they were all in. The son of Athena hated having his name shortened and was more than willing to show his displeasure with physical actions. Due to his prowess, once one felt his wrath, the victims were quick to hold their tongues, afraid and having no desire to be on the receiving end of his anger again.

Not so the brunette woman.

Rebecca, a daughter of Demeter, was no shirking violet and more than willing to get down and dirty if it meant achieving her goals. During her time at Camp, while not a cabin councillor, she had still made a name for herself as someone not to mess with. Even Cabin Five's occupants, many of them bullies in one form or another, had given her a wide berth after her first encounter with the children of Ares.

(Last Marcus had heard, the poor fools who had tried to intimidate her still couldn't go to the loo without feeling like their nether regions were on fire. An unfortunate consequence of having a large amount of a certain three-leafed plant being shoved where the light from Apollo's chariot dared not shine.)

Unlike some of her brothers and sisters, she thrived on the battlefield and was a forced to be reckoned with. Her weapons, twin kukri that could also be used like those ridiculous boomerangs from Australia, were something that many tried to avoid, lest said weapons end up taking their heads from their collective shoulders. As if that wasn't enough, she was also capable of creating thick tree roots from her hands and feet and send them through either the ground or the air to either grasp and crush whatever poor soul managed to enter her clutches.

Her personality reflected her skills. Forceful and playful and confident, she was someone that was almost always willing to accept a challenge, finding it fun to push her limits and see how far she could go. Despite that, she also, usually, knew when she was in over her head and needed to either get help or cut her losses and run in order for her and others to survive. It made her an excellent tactician, if a rather poor strategist, but also endeared her to any compatriots she fought beside on the battlefield.

This facet of her grated against the meticulous force strategist that was Alfred, who had inherited a large portion of his mother's often cold and callous planning skills and was not very good company when his best laid plans turned into piles of scrap due to a single miscalculation or a deliberate action by one of his allies that went against his strategies.

"Push overs, we may not be," Alfred admitted with a scowl, "but this is far from a normal fight, nor will we be facing the average monster or foe!"

"True," a deep voice rumbled out in agreement to Alfred's statement, "but it is likely the only chance we will have at freedom. You know this."

Alfred winced heavily at the point made by the eldest of the group.

At close to forty years of age, Clay was the oldest living mortal half-blood Marcus had ever met.

Clay was massive in all senses of the word. Just under seven feet tall and mightily thewed, the mere sight of him had made many a man gulp, and a woman shiver, as they imagined what those scarred, stained and callused hands could do once they had touched their flesh.

He was a son of Hephaestus and truly lived up to the expectations of those who were sired by said God. Methodical, logical and industrious, he had forged an empire out of metalcraft in the Mortal World, owning several steel mills and foundries and one or two mines, with his own two massive hands. He was a legend amongst the Campers and someone that they desired to be like.

Clay's brown eyes stared at the wincing form of the child of Athena from behind the thick, bristly and wild brown beard that adorned his ruddy face, along with the shoulder length hair, as yet untouched by the silver of age, that was tied in a loose and messy pony tail. His hands rested on the haft of the symbol of his father, a massive hammer that no other person known to him could lift, from where its head created a large crater in the sandy floor of the arena.

"The life of a half-blood is never certain, boy," the mammoth man rumbled, slow but clear, a stone that moved slowly, but with unstoppable purpose, "Whatever challenge awaits, we should take it. It is our best, perhaps our _only,_ true chance. Declining it would only worsen our position." Those brown eyes narrowed, becoming hard as the metal he and his father wrought, "And I do not believe that we would survive long should our situation become worse than it already is."

A haughty, and grim, scoff came from another member of their not so merry band.

"Got that right, Smokey," grunted Heather, her green eyes bright and fierce and shimmering, a dancing aurora of emerald flame and light caught in the grasp of a cold winter morning. Those gimlet eyes switched targets to the child of Athena, "In case you have forgotten, Feather Head, these collars aren't exactly going to come off any time soon, believe me I have tried, nor does anyone know where we are. Heck!" She snorted, "They probably think that we are already dead and gone. There won't be anyone coming to save us any time soon, if that was your hope."

Marcus shook his head at the blunt words from the woman. Heather was as blunt as they came, and just as crass.

Heather was a bit of an oddity amongst the children of Hecate. Generally, the children of the Dark Lady were more subtle, more mysterious, in their actions, a probable effect of being able to manipulate the Mist and the mind set that was required to do so. Heather, on the other hand, was cut of a different cloth.

Crude, rude, harsh and as blunt as a hatchet to the face, Heather was a very confrontational woman, more than willing to back talk any that dared to throw malicious words in her direction, of which there were more than a few. Children were often the cruelest beings on the planet, especially to those who didn't exactly fit in.

She had often gotten herself into more than a few fights when she had attended Camp, her short temper and rebellious attitude not really helping her case. It was no real wonder that she was a self-proclaimed goth, with the dark clothing, numerous piercings (though thankfully none in some of the most distasteful places...at least on her face.) and accessories to match. She would have had the pale and dark make up as well, but due to being stuffed in a cell for a week, it had run and streaked off in that time.

The reason for the constant teasing and mocking that she had to endure though had been rather shocking when the revelation was made.

She was unable to manipulate the Mist, a staple skill of her siblings.

She had been the butt of more than a few jokes because of that. It was like finding a fish that couldn't swim, left to desperately flounder, or a lion that couldn't hunt, forced to lie prone and starve. But she had risen above such ridicule.

Perhaps the path of siblings was barred from her, but she still retained some of her mother's more well known skills, that of True Magic, something that was closely linked to, but still separate from, the Mist. She may not be able to dazzle minds and ensnare the senses, but she was able to rend the heavens with bolts of Zeus' wrath and set the world alight with ever hungry flames or drown her enemies in the domain of Poseidon or entomb them in the earth next to the realm of Hades. Unlike many of her brothers and sisters, she was no illusionist or trickster or had use of mere parlour tricks, albeit powerful ones. She was sorceress of battle and wrath, one that wielded the fury of the elements and pit bolts of said wrath against her foe.

She may not be able to use the elements as well, or as powerfully, as a child born of the deity that presided over the Domain that contained them, but she could still pack one hell of wallop against whatever unfortunate _army_ was thrown her way.

She was also quite well read in lore and craft. She was one of the few of her siblings to use written spells in her arsenal, inscribing glyphs and talismans of power onto a physical medium and empowering them to bring forth a change in the world. It was not a common path for the children of Hecate to take. Spoken words of a spell often conveyed one's intent and will, the cornerstone of magic, much better than singular subjective glyphs, which were a whole other branch that combined not just the written words of the Ancient Greeks, but many other symbols of power and mysticism from many other cultures.

Add in her skill with the bronze-capped battle staff that she wielded like another limb, with punishing and bone crushing force, and one could only imagine the destruction she could wreak on the field of battle.

She was definitely someone that you wanted to have on your side when the chips were down and the final cards were about to be played.

"Must you call me that infernal name?" Gritted out the blonde haired scion of Athena, looking more than a little flushed with anger as he glared at the grimly smiling daughter of Hecate, receiving only an idle flip of the bird in response.

"I believe that we are getting off track," another one of the group pointed out, the voice cool and smooth, like water in a quiet stream.

Green eyes looked around at all of them as the speaker continued, now that they had the group's attention, "Fact of the matter is, boys and girls, is that we are already considered _dead_ by our fathers and our mothers _._ " The butt of the speaker's polearm struck the earth with a thump, emphasising the word, "Only by the grace of the Fates, who seem to have very little of it where it concerns us and our kin, will there be a possible rescue party for us to hold out for. _We. Are. On. Our. Own."_ Again and again the sand was struck by the long weapon.

The speaker sighed heavily, leaning against the weapon, black hair falling across their vivid, but tired, green eyes. "Acceding to the bastard's desire to chain us is not something that I will accept. ' _The Sea Cannot Be Restrained.'_ These were the words that were told to me by my father, just as they were told him by his father." The face of the speaker, pale and wondrous and beautiful beneath the dirt and grime of a week's worth of very minimal washing, twisted harshly, angered and terrible as those green eyes, so like that of calm sea, darkened to that of a storm tossed tempest. "If we choose to fight, we have a chance. Refuse it...and we will just be delaying our death sentence, allowing the bastard to pick us off, one by one." Through white teeth, that seemed to be ever so slightly sharper than they were before, a deep growl arose, slightly distorted, like an angry creature of the deep rousing from it's long slumber in order to do battle with those that had foolishly disturbed it.

"I would rather die on my feet than die like an animal in a bear baiting spectacle."

Marcus noted the majority of nods and muttered agreements from the rest of the band of buggered that he was rolling with. He had to admit, Sirene was quite the eloquent speaker.

Sirene was an unusual one, even amongst the strangeness that was the norm for half-bloods, and was from Marcus' own generation of modern demigods. She was not the child of an Olympian, much like the gothic Heather, but she was the grandchild of one.

Of one of the Big Three to be more specific.

Her divine sire was Triton, messenger of the Sea and the Trumpeter, thus making her the grandchild of Poseidon. It had caused quite a stir when she had been claimed at Camp, pretty much the second that she had crossed the boundary line. As a child of a 'minor' God, a term that Marcus heartily disliked, knowing the insidious discontent, anger and even hatred that this single word made ferment in the minds of those that it referred to, she generally would have been housed in Cabin Eleven.

Not so for her.

A small green trident, the symbol of her grandfather, as opposed to the large conch shell that was her father's, had also appeared during her claiming, granting her access to Cabin Three, the cabin of Poseidon, thus making her the first occupant of since the end of World War Two. Marcus had to wonder what that said about Poseidon, that he had allowed such a thing. Perhaps he cared greatly for his family?

Marcus knew that other Olympians had done similar things in the past, generally for the children of minor gods that were linked to them. Children of Asclepius sometimes were claimed by Apollo, and Ares sometimes, rarely, let Enyo's children live in his Cabin, provided that they were exceptionally gifted. Aphrodite also sometimes welcomed the children of her immortal child by Ares, Eros, into the pink monstrosity that was her Cabin.

But those privileges had been earned, coming sometime after they were initially claimed, after they had achieved various deeds of renown (at least in Camp). To granted it pretty as soon as one walked in the door...?

In either case, wherever she slept or whatever privileges she was granted, she was still one hell of a tough cookie, even if she didn't look it.

Long, dark hair and vivid green eyes were situated in a deceptively delicate face that seemed to shimmer, gleam and glow in the right light, making her an entrancing beauty that more than a few Campers, of both genders and of various species, were taken in by. With it attached to a body that even a blind person could say was beautiful and a voice that was as sweet, soothing, rich and tempting an apple from Hera's sacred garden and it was unsurprising that many had wondered if her name was merely a thinly veiled reference to what she truly was.

However, her looks were merely a front. When someone got to know her, they figured out pretty quickly that she was more than just a pretty face.

With her weapon of choice in her hand, a very unique trident that looked to be made out of some form of coral, that had a line of holes bored into its length and on its prongs, but could cleave through steel and monster flesh with the same ease that a hot knife could be sliced through warm butter, she was an absolute _monster,_ able to take own three opponents at once and seemed to be able to crush them all with ease and without breaking a sweat or getting a single scratch.

She also had a degree of the hydrokinesis and a smidgen of the hydrogenesis that was generally seen in the various children of Poseidon in years long past, though due to the fact that she had inherited it from a 'minor' God the ability was not as strong as that of her respective uncles and aunts of the past.

However, she did have her own skills that were unique to her and her honoured father.

Upon being submersed in water, her body shifted into something resembling that of her father's natural form, becoming a mermaid with twin serpentine fish tails replacing her legs, sharp claws and teeth with slightly webbed hands and iridescent green scales all over her body. In that form, she could breathe in the ocean as easily as the air, was far stronger, could swim faster than a car could drive and was able to communicate with marine life telepathically.

Much like the rest of her divine kin, she was much more powerful when in the water than when she was out of it.

Her last unique gift, something that was her father's greatest power, and thus her own, was her voice.

In the mortal myths regarding her father, he was reputed to have a large conch shell that he blew, making the tides either recede or rise. The noise created from the shell was also scary enough to put the Giants, children of Gaia and Tartarus, to flight back during the Gigantomachy in times of yore. This ability was reflected onto Triton's mortal children as a facet of his role as the 'Messenger of the Sea'.

According to Sirene, her father called it the 'Warsong of the Ocean'. Using her voice, she was able to make a roar that was powerful enough to have physical force. It paralysed her foes with fear and terror and could split bodies of water like she was a screaming Moses or make water from the furthest reaches of the horizon rush toward her. Her enemies enemies were thrown backwards by the force of the yell and she could make glass shatter and stone crumble in the face of it. It was an admittedly powerful trump card for her to have, but it was also something that drained her greatly when she used it, almost to the point of absolute exhaustion, and was thus a card that she was reluctant to play unless all else had failed.

Her father had been able to mitigate this disadvantage by gifting her with her specially crafted trident. Using it as a focus, she was able to better control that aspect of her abilities, being able to use for more delicate uses rather than just a shockwave of utter destruction.

She was easily a top contender for the strongest amongst their little group of sorry souls, but she preferred to take a back seat to such things, letting others take the lead, but made sure her opinion was always known.

Marcus sighed slightly as he looked at the steely eyed and grimacing child of wisdom. "There doesn't seem to much debate on this, Alfred." Marcus said softly to him, "We all want to get out of here and this seems to be the only way to do so. You have made your opinions clear, just like everyone else has. Having heard the words, are you willing to stand beside us? Even if you think it is a terrible idea?"

Those steely eyes darkened and from his throat came an angered growl, something that made the youngest of them flinch backward slightly, even as her face tried to hide the fear creeping into it as the young one marshalled her courage, into Marcus. He gently laid a rough but warm hand on her armoured shoulder, squeezing it reassuringly as he glanced down to meet her kaleidoscopic eyes.

"For the record," growled the child of Athena, as he sulkily loosened his bronze sword in its sheath with a resigned motion and straightened his shoulders, getting the slightly ill-fitting in a more comfortable position, reluctantly readying himself for the battle to come, "I think this is a terrible idea and that we are all going to die."

Marcus chuckled slightly, even as the others, save for the trepidated young girl amongst them, gave their own gestures of mirth as they made their own preparations for battle.

Marcus felt the battle-rust flow off him as he turned toward the impatiently waiting form of Antaeus and the heckling crowd of mortal and immortal monsters, his nerves once more afire with the vigour they had when he was still at Camp, when the world of Gods was so strange and new and his blood burned with the desire to fight, to bring glory to his father.

He knew the others were feeling the same, no doubt even Clay was feeling the vigour once more, the year's flowing off of him like water off of a duck's back as he stood the tallest amongst them all. Whatever they were doing in the mortal world after they left Camp, whatever job they had, whether it be an architect, a gym instructor, an actor or delivery man, they all knew that those jobs were attempts to bury their bloody past, attempts to forget the pains that they had went through. Now though, with their backs against the wall and their lives and freedom at stake, their true natures were coming to the fore. The reason for their existence, whatever their sires and dames may otherwise claim, stamped on their faces.

A sly and vicious grin crossed his face, something that both Chiron and Mr.D had said made him look like an angered version of his divine father, as he stared up at the Giant that held them.

"Have you reached a decision yet, little man?" Antaeus growled down at them, condescending and arrogant. Marcus only widened his grin, gripping the hilt of his unique weapon tightly, a gift from his father and a sign of his favour, even amongst those that shared his father's blood.

A soft brushing of flesh on his armour made him glance down at a nervous young girl, one that held her dagger tightly even as her limbs trembled, as if she feared what was to come. Good. That meant the little lady had a decent head on her shoulders.

Fear was a double-edged sword. It could keep someone alive as it made them cautious and careful, or it could kill them through either a lack of it, thus making some fool overestimate their own power and underestimate the danger of other things, or through excessive amounts of it, making one either freeze in place, making them sitting ducks for enemy fire, or cause them to run like cowards, showing their backs to the enemy who would, without a single doubt, seize that opportunity to literally stab them in the back.

Luckily for them all, despite her inexperience and no doubt still befuddled and frightened state of mind, the little lass seemed to be made of sterner stuff than the majority of her sisters and brothers, a rare find and one that Marcus could help but be relieved by.

"Don't worry, little one," he whispered down at her, making her glance up at him, eyes bright and somewhat frantic and scared, "I swear to you that you will get through this alive. I swear on the Styx."

Her eyes widened as the muted rumble of thunder sealed the oath he had made and felt the an invisible burden weigh heavily on his shoulders. It was heavy oath, but it was one that he would be glad to make sure will come to pass, even if it meant that he would be seeing old friends a little sooner than he meant to.

"Chin up, kiddo," he said, brushing his dirtied knuckles against her jaw, "Don't let them see you shake," he flicked his eyes to raging stands around the skull filled arena, "these mongrels aren't worth the dirt on your shoes. You're a daughter of the Gods, little lady! Show it to them!"

His words seemed to give the lass a dose of confidence, one that she desperately needed. Her limbs stopped shaking and her body straightened, while still leaving herself in a slight crouch to enable herself to move swiftly. Her eyes, once a twisting kaleidoscope, had now stilled, becoming a hard blue verging on grey. Eyes of steel and determination.

Marcus smirked. Definitely wasn't like the rest.

"I'm waiting mortal," the annoyed form Antaeus growled down at them, making Marcus once more focus on the oversized whale, "What is your decision? Battle or chains?"

Marcus gave a slashing vicious smirk up at the immense form of the bastard child of Poseidon, the mask of a warrior true on his face, mirrored by his companions, even the youngest of them.

"We choose to fight, Antaeus!" He yelled up at the braggart pankration master, his voice full of confidence that they would defeat whatever foe was thrown at them all. The decision was made, there was no going back, nor was there time for regrets. What was done, was done. Now it was time to reap what they had sown. "Bring forth your Champion so that we can reclaim our freedom!"

The stands filled with monsters erupted into a cacophony of cheers and boos and hisses. Marcus only grinned wildly around at the damned creatures, his eyes practically daring them to do anything about his words.

The Giant, however, only seemed to smirk, his green eyes filled with a fiendish delight. Inwardly, Marcus kept his mind running. While the option that had been, almost unanimously, chosen was the best one, the only one, that they could see letting them return to their homes, it was more than obvious that Poseidon's byblow _wanted_ them to make this choice. In order to have a chance at freedom, they had all been forced to violate one of the first and most important rules of combat.

Never fight on the ground of the enemy's choosing.

Marcus inwardly prayed to the Gods, even if they, according to Antaeus, were deaf to their words. Hopefully, this critical mistake would not end up killing them all.

"Very well," the giant, much to Marcus' unease, almost purred, a sound that was as much disturbing as it was odd. The bastard's smile grew to the point that Marcus could count his teeth.

"The choice has been made!" The prick announced to the arena at large, making the noise from them increase wildly. "The next match shall be my Champion against the mongrels of Olympus!"

The cheering increased, faint calls for 'Blood!' and 'Death!' mixing amidst the furor, even as Marcus and company tensed their muscles and their faces all scowled. Marcus greatly disliked being called a 'mongrel'.

"Sound the horns and let my Champion enter the arena!" Antaeus commanded.

In response to the giant's command, a Laistrygonian, bulging and surly and absolutely filthy, stepped forth and put a white horn to his lips and gave it a blast.

 _'BRRRRRWOOOOOOOOO! BRRRRRWOOOOOOOOO!_ ' cried the horn.

The sounds echoed off of the walls of the arena, creating a noise that drove the guests in the stands further into a frenzy, the gathered fools knowing that the noise heralded the commencement of more blood sport for them to enjoy.

Marcus ignored it, as did the elder half-bloods, use to the cacophony and focused on the dark corridor on the other end of the arena, from which would emerge Antaeus' precious Champion.

Amidst the darkness, he saw a flicker of white, a flicker that was slowly and steadily growing, and braced himself for what he was about to see, his hand tightening on the weapon he held, one that had once been his father's and was the reason the Camp's driver, Argus, was not particularly fond of him, even compared to the rest of his Claimed siblings.

Then the blaze of white exited the darkness and entered the light thrown by the blazing torches embedded in sconces around the arena and embedded in the macabre chandelier of bone high above them.

He felt his eyebrows raise in surprise at what he saw, and heard the murmurings of flabbergasted shock from his fellow compatriots even over the din of the bloodthirsty crowd.

"What. The. Fuck?" He heard the son of Ares ask incredulously, voicing Marcus and the rest's own minds.

What they all saw certainly wasn't what they had been expecting.

* * *

Piper McLean had had a rough week.

It had all started when she had been walking down the street in her home town when suddenly something was thrown over head, casting her world into darkness, and a damp cloth was pressed into her nose and face. She remembered only struggling briefly before being overwhelmed by the sharp and sickly sweet smell of the damp cloth before her fearful mind went blank.

She had then woken to up find herself in chains, in cage, surrounded by other people that she didn't know, also in chains. She was not ashamed to admit that she had freaked out a little, anyone else would have done same, and it had taken a while for the others to calm her down and make her coherent.

Then the hammer blows to her perception of reality began.

Words like 'half-blood', 'monster', 'magic', 'Mist' and 'Gods' had been thrown about like confetti at a parade. She had staunchly refused to believe the explanations at first (Clumsy Piper McLean a half-blood? A modern day Demi-goddess? That sounded like a script of one of her dad's rejected movie roles.) and thought that she was in a place full of crazies.

Then she had seen her first monster, for there was no way that the immense tattooed being wearing grimy shorts, smelling like rotten meat and having a mouthful of sharp teeth like a shark could be anything else, and experienced the sheer pain that her collar could produce.

From that point onward, she was a believer.

Like the rest of them, she had slowly learned about the hot water they were in. Captured by Antaeus' mortal human goon squad to fight in his frankly disgusting arena in order to spill blood for his entertainment. It was not something any of them had liked, but there was little that either of them could do anything about.

In preparation for the fights to come, the older half-bloods had come together to give her a crash course in fighting, Russell had even parted with a few of his prized daggers for her to use when the time came. A bit of quick blade work using spoons and a brief overview of how to throw a punch and kick properly, along with a lecture to listen to her instincts, to stay close to one of them and a thorough description of all the dirty tricks in and out of the book.

She wasn't any where near prepared for what was about to happen, she would need at least weeks of training, minimal, to achieve something like that, but she would be _completely_ dead weight and would do her best to both defend herself and her new found friends.

Eventually, the time had come and they had been lead out of their cage at spear point, with archers covering them as well.

Of course, there had been a small hiccup. If one could view someone's as small.

There had initially been ten others, along with Piper, in that cell. That had been narrowed nine when they were let out.

In a bout of nigh insanity, Aaron, a jittery and brooding child of Ares, had snapped and tried to fight, roaring insanely and laughing as he threw himself towards the guards. Their escorts had immediately activated the collar, only for him to roar even louder and keep coming, knocking them around like tenpins despite the weight and size advantage that their escorts had had over him.

It was unfortunate that the door to their cage had been slammed closed when the biker had thrown a fit, separating them from him and rendering him aid, or escaping, impossible.

His delirious rampage had been brought to an abrupt halt when a new figure had appeared, appearing as a blur before the eyes of the caged divine children before solidifying into the form of a large Scythian Dracaena who then back handed the child of Ares away, like she was swatting a fly, and into the wall, thus silencing him for a bit.

Piper felt shivers run down her spine as she remembered the monster's annoyed, but also coolly amused, pitiless and malicious, glare.

Her sibilant voice had only added another layer of quiet trepidation and fear to Piper's already quaking form, unused to the sight of someone on a rampage or simply having their mind snap like a dry twig.

' _Aren't you a foolissssh little worm?'_ The female monster said, her two tails gliding her towards the prone form of Aaron, as she slowly raised herself higher on her two tails, ' _But wormsss crawl, do they not?'_

One of the dragon-woman's tail legs had then lashed out, almost faster than Piper could see, striking the dazed child of war across the face, knocking him flat on his face near the rough hewn wall.

Then the monster had stabbed him in the middle of the back with her two-pronged spear, punching straight through his spine and stomach with an gut wrenching and wet crackling squelch. Piper had felt her bones chill and her gorge rise in her throat at the sight. The anguished scream of agony and terror that erupted from Aaron's throat had only made it worse.

Many were the yells that the others and herself had made, telling the dragon-woman, begging her, to let the surly, but now broken, child of Ares go, to let him be healed.

The monster had ignored their pleas as she viciously twisted the spear again and again, making the wound in Aaron's back gape wider and wider, the red liquid of life flowing thickly and copiously from wounds in both the front and the back. Gradually, those rending cries and screams slowly died down to weak yelps, yips and then to whimpers. Only then had the monstrous woman let up and had turned to them.

Those reptilian eyes, callous and amused, had gazed at them even as the now feebly whimpering child of Ares squirmed about like a worm on a hook, pinned to the floor by the spear.

' _Unless you wissssh to end up like_ _ **thissss**_ _disssgusssting little worm,_ ' she said, giving the spear one more savage twist to enunciate the word, the screams and squalls of Aaron rising in pitch, ' _I would highly suggesssst you co-operate little half-bloodss,'_ she had chuckled/giggled sinisterly with the sibilant hiss of her words at her comment before wordlessly moving off, leaving Aaron to bleed out where he lay skewered, feebly twitching and whimpering where he lay near the wall.

Things had been quiet after that, Piper and the rest following the orders their escort made and wordlessly dressing in the armour they provided, Piper needing a little help to put her own set on, while also accepting their personal weapons that they had somehow managed to obtain from the homes of the elder half-bloods.

Then they had been forcibly escorted to the arena where the whole debacle on whether to fight Antaeus' Champion or not had played out. In the end, they had all agreed to take a chance with the Champion rather than be doomed to battle day in and day out, only prolonging their suffering under the giant's sharp yoke.

Piper felt just as shocked as the rest of them when the vaunted and feared Champion had revealed himself at Antaeus' order.

' _Young'_ was her first thought about the newly revealed Champion. He looked young, older than her but younger than the rest of her new found friends and colleagues, possibly in his middle to late teens.

His skin was also the palest shade of white that she had ever seen, bar that from an actor playing an albino in one of her dad's movies, that seemed to almost glow where he stood passively, casually and idly, one of his slim hands in the pocket of his white jacket/coat.

He also seemed to have a slim build, nor was he quite as tall as the boys in her party, hidden beneath the slightly baggy white pants and jacket that he wore and she also noticed that his shoes were exceedingly odd, looking to be more like a cross between slippers and those strange curly toed shoes that were frequently shown in movies about Aladdin, Ali Baba or other tales of the Arabian Nights.

Though this boy was no Arab prince by any stretch of the imagination.

Her second thought about him, though, was ' _Empty'._

His pale face had gazed at them all, showing on the briefest bit of acknowledgement, as if he was observing a room full of furniture and committing to memory the exact positions of said pieces in order to avoid colliding with them in the future, before his face turned towards Antaeus on his throne above them.

Piper was peripherally aware of the stiffening postures of some of her friends, taking the almost dismissive gesture as an insult. Piper, however, saw deeper into the motion.

For a half second, when the stranger's eyes had briefly met hers, she saw the Abyss.

Those bright eyes, the green of hard gems rather than the teal of the shifting seas that belonged to Sirene or fierce and shimmering light of Heather, belief the yawning darkness she could feel behind them. There had been no emotion, no heart, in those eyes that were marked by similarly coloured tear streaks beneath them, standing out starkly against his smooth pale skin and midnight black hair, just a blankness that made Piper inwardly recoil.

If the eyes were the window to one's soul, then Piper had seen nothing, just darkness, a blank wall of complete absence that mirror his face. As if this being, one that she hesitated to call a person, didn't have one.

No emotions. No heart. No _soul_. An Empty being. That is what Piper saw.

And it frightened her.

"This twig of a kid is his _Champion?!"_ She faintly heard one of her fellow half-bloods mutter incredulously, "What the hell is he smoking? This has to be a trick!"

"I doubt it," Piper heard Heather say grimly. Piper heard the slight squeak of skin on wood as the real magic user of the group tightened her grip on her staff, "There is much more to this kid than meets the eye." Piper could hear the hesitant note in the older goth's voice. "Much, much more."

"Half-bloods!" Called the giant son of Gaia like he was a ring announcer, his teeth twisted into a wide grin of obscene delight as he looked down at them, a gleam in his tempestuous green eyes that made Piper shiver in foreboding, "I present to you, my Champion, Grave!"

The monsters in the stands hooted and hollered at the giant's announcement. Piper thought she could hear faint cheering and had even noticed a large green banner held at the back of the stands, like some fans would do at a sports match, that depicted a crude gravestone with two long marks, one of either side of the rough picture, that obviously indicated the boy's strange tear marks. Inscribed on top of it was the legend 'To The Grave!', which weirded her out.

Did she just step into PPV match for the WWE?!

"Fighters!" Called out the Giant, making her wandering attention turn to him once more, "Choose your weapons!"

One by one, her compatriots simply lifted their weapons in indication of what they would use, Piper lifting her borrowed/gifted brace of Celestial Bronze daggers that she had received from Russell when her turn came. The last of their group, Marcus, simply lifted the odd weapon he used that looked like a weird cross between a walking cane and a long sickle/scythe. She had been told that it was special weapon, one that was the cream of the crop in regards to monster-slaying weaponry and had a distinguished history.

She still thought it was weird though.

The one called Grave, however, and she doubted that that horrid name was his true one, had simply his opened hands and clenched them twice silently, not saying a word nor an expression crossing his blank and melancholic face. It took a moment for her understand what that meant.

"Oh, now that is just mocking us," Jake scowled, tightening his hold on his red spear, his eyes glaring daggers at the almost placid form of their opponent.

"Keep it together, lad," rumbled Clay as he spun the haft of his heavy hammer in his hand, making his grip on it comfortable for the fight to come, "Don't let your emotions or your pride rule you here. It may just cost you more than you can properly pay."

"Yeah, yeah, old timer," grumbled the child of Ares as they all spread out slightly, giving each other room to fight and move with their chosen weapons. The twins, of course, moving themselves to the back so as to take advantage of their respective bow's longer reach. "Don't teach your grandmother how to suck eggs."

Piper noticed that the empty gaze of the motionless boy that was their opponent kept an eye on all of them, flicking around as they moved.

"The rules of the match are as follows!" Called the Giant, "You will all fight until your opponent or opponents are incapacitated, whether by wounds, maiming or unconsciousness. There is no option to surrender. You may _not_ kill your opponent until I have given you permission to do so. Any attempt to leave the arena whilst the match is still under way will result in an instant triggering of the explosive function of the collar attached to the offender. Apart from these..." He grinned through ripple carved teeth, "there are no restrictions.

"The battle will commence when the horn next sounds."

Those gleefully malicious green eyes of Antaeus turned to Piper and her friends.

"Good luck, half-bloods. Try to make your battle one worthy of a sacrifice to my Father."

* * *

The one called Grave flicked his eyes over his moving opponents, assessing them.

There were ten in total. Two of them archers, a lone, but massive, hammer user, three polearms users (the one with the staff also appeared to have odd markings on her weapon, a possible indication of a magic user. He upped that girl's threat level. He had faced few beings who used magic as their weapon of choice.), two swordsmen (one of them a dual wielder.), a clearly inexperienced dagger user (she would be the weakest among them and held no threat to him. Though there was something about her that drew his eyes to her and tried to keep them there. He masterfully ignored the pull on his attention. He was not so weak minded.) and what seemed to the leader of the pack, judging by the way the rest of them all looked to him, even the clearly older and mammoth figure wielding his giant hammer, clearly holding an odd form of a sickle sword.

He guessed even trash had their standouts amongst them.

His green eyes raked over the seeming older blue-eyed blonde. He would be the greatest threat among them. Logic, thus, would normally dictate that taking him out first should be the priority. He gave a slight frown as his eyes wandered over to the back of the bunch, noting the two archers and the suspected magic user readying themselves, the bowman drawing a bead on him with their bows whilst the staff user set herself near them, probably to defend them just in case he got close.

(Ultimately futile, but quite intelligent if they were facing anyone else apart from him.)

This time, however, he would have to take out their ranged support and their unpredictable and adaptive element, provided that his assumption of the multiple ring pierced woman was correct, first before moving into the thick of the melee with the others of the assembled troupe.

He frowned harder, a mere flicker appearing on his otherwise blank face. He had never faced such a large enemy group before, nor one that had such a clearly varied set of skills and abilities. This would, without a shadow of a doubt, be his most difficult battle yet, trumping even the large drakon that his Master had managed to obtain a month ago for him to fight.

He might even have to resort to using _**IT,**_ or at least the initial part any way. Much as he didn't wish to use such power against those who were, individually, trash.

Grave's eyes noted a shifting at the side of his Master, a twisted white shape appearing in the hands of a familiar dracaena. He subtly tensed his body, casually removing his hands from the pockets of his white coat.

Perhaps he would show these fools that faced him the meaning of True Despair.

 _'BRRRRRWOOOOOOOOO!'_

The horn was sounded.

And the battle began.

* * *

 **Author's Notes**

 _Well, how did you like this chapter folks?_

 _This has been an idea that has been rattling in my brain pan for quite a while and I have only recently just tried to flesh it out and get a rough idea of where I want to take it._

 _For those who haven't picked up on the nuances within the chapter, this story is a Harry Potter and Percy Jackson crossover, with a minor bit of Bleach thrown in (mainly in the skill set and personality of the main character being very very similar to that of a certain apathetic Bleach character.) and, possibly, a few other franchises, though only because they have a few powers that might be appropriate for my character._

 _It completely ignores the epilogue of Harry Potter, and diverges from canon upon the time that Harry voluntarily sacrifices himself to Voldemort in Book Seven. Without spoiling too much of the future plot, let's just say that, as per normal Potter luck, there is more to Harry that meets they eye, specifically in his heritage, that interacted with the Killing Curse, both the first and the second time, that has, once more, thrown our intrepid wizard into the middle of it. This is also set before the Battle of the Labyrinth from Percy Jackson._

 _Hopefully, this will be a rather unique story that many will like._

 _As always, please review,_

 _Kujikiri21_


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